


Happy New Year's, Oz

by NorthernWitch97



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: #gobblepotwinter2020, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mention of Barbara Gordon - Freeform, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Several curses towards Harvey, gobblepot, sorry Harvey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 09:20:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28468917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernWitch97/pseuds/NorthernWitch97
Summary: Jim Gordon hates New Year's Eve; he just wants to get drunk, fall asleep, and block out the sounds of fireworks exploding outside his window. Oswald Cobblepot loves New Year's, drinks an entire bottle of champagne, and decides to show up at the doorstep of his favorite detective (although he can't remember why) Featuring drunk Oswald, touch starved Jim, and a lot of fluff.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Jim Gordon
Kudos: 40





	Happy New Year's, Oz

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, my first work, so please be nice? Sorry if anything is off, I don't have a beta. Wrote this in like twenty minutes.  
> Oswald is a little OOC, but he's drunk as hell- much like when he first took over Mooney's bar. Jim needs a fuckin hug like give this man a break please? Anyone?

Jim Gordon absolutely hated New Year's Eve.   
As a police officer, it was a hell of a night. People would drink until they couldn’t sit up straight, shouting and cheering with flashing glowsticks around their necks. Criminals all want to start the new year with a bang, crime jumping dramatically over the first few days in January. The GCPD bullpen would be absolute chaos, police fighting drunk revelers dressed in ridiculous, oversized, glasses shaped like numbers.   
It was one of the few times Jim had no regrets about taking the night off.   
Besides, the explosions from the fireworks were a particular brand of hell for him, reminding him far too much of his time overseas. He either spent the night drinking until he passed out or laying in his bed alone with a pillow over his head, trying to push away rising panic.  
Jim stalked restlessly around his small apartment, feeling too pent up to sit down. He’d had tried a hot shower, but the hot water had crapped out almost right away, leaving him even more pissed off and wide awake.  
Whisky. Whisky will help.   
Jim spun on his heel, dropping to his knees and opening the lowest kitchen cupboard, his eyes scanning the dark area. In the very back, he could see a half-bottle of Jack Daniels, purposely hidden behind the pipes. For good reason, too. The last time his niece was visiting she gotten her hands on it, and the seven-year-old had taken a large gulp before Jim could stop her. Lucky for him Barbara had spat it all over the floor, but it took a rather large ice cream to ensure she wouldn’t snitch to Roger.   
Now though, his niece was with her parents, likely covered in face paint and excitedly waiting for the ball to drop outside Gotham city hall. Meanwhile, her disaster of an uncle was crawling under the sink, the bottle stuck behind a pipe.   
Come on…just a little more…  
There was suddenly a loud knocking at the door like someone was trying to break the door down. Jim, already on edge, immediately jumped at the sound, slamming his head against the ceiling while cursing a blue streak.   
Jim scrambled out of the small space, holding his head in one hand and the bottle in the other. Jesus, he got hit on the head enough at work, he didn’t deserve this shit at home. It was a wonder he’d never had a concussion.   
There was another loud knock on his door, Jim scowling in the general direction. “Damnit Harvey, I’m not going on a pub crawl! Just ask Lucius or something!”   
No answer, just another few knocks. This time it was a pattern, like a person was using his door as a homemade drum. Pat-pat-pat-pat, pat-bang!  
What the hell?   
Jim stumbled to his feet, putting the whiskey on his kitchen counter and rubbing his head. Harvey had spent the last week trying to convince, blackmail, and guilt-trip him into going out for New Years'. Considering there were about 15 minutes until midnight, it seemed Harvey decided to give it one last try.   
Jim stormed over to the door, the knocking continuing as he slammed the bolt back and violently yanked it open. “Harvey, I swear to God, if you weren’t technically my Captain, I’d-”  
Jim froze with the door open because it wasn’t Harvey standing in his hallway. Instead, it was a rather disheveled looking Penguin, holding a bottle of sparkling wine and slumped against the doorframe. He was in his usual suit, but it looks like someone had tossed it in the dryer with him still in it. His hair was completely wild, any product is long gone and leaving if a black, fluffy mass.  
For a moment, the Penguin looked just as surprised as Jim, the pair silently staring at each other for a heartbeat. Then Oswald burst into a wide grin, his eyes flashing with unbridled glee. “Jim! Old friend!”   
“Cobblepot, what the hell?” Jim congratulated himself on sounding so deadpan, despite being completely baffled and wondering just how hard he hit his head. “What are you doing here?”   
“Looking for you, silly,” the man actually giggled, shoving himself upright. He over-estimated it though, and ended up just smacking the other side of the doorframe with a surprised little ‘ouf!’ Oswald looked confused, a little frown appearing on his face as he wobbled dangerously on his feet. “Ooh…”  
“Christ, your drunk as a skunk.” Jim grabbed his upper arms before he toppled over, trying to stand him up straight. Instead, the gangster toppled forwards, landing headfirst into the officer's chest. Jim wrapped his arms around him on instinct, now completely holding the smaller man up. “Penguin!?”   
“Hello,” sang came the reply from his t-shirt. There was a moment of silence, and then a curious sounding ‘you have mustard on your shirt’ from Oswald.   
Bloody hell.   
“If you’re going to die of alcohol poisoning on someone’s doorstep, can’t you got to Harvey’s?” Jim complained, mentally praying to several different deities to grant him patience. “Okay, come on, stand up.”   
“Muhmpf?” was the reply from his chest, Jim holding the man by his upper arms and half dragging Oswald into his apartment. Once inside, Oswald stumbled the few feet over to the ragged couch on his own, doing a little spin on his good leg and flopping down on his back dramatically. Jim watched Oswald giggle at his little show for a good five seconds, before Jim bit the bullet and closed the door behind him.   
“What happened to you?” he asked, shoving the deadbolt back in place. “Why are you here?”   
Oswald blinked, putting the bottle onto the ground next to him and turning his head to face Jim. “Here?”   
“In my apartment?”   
Oswald’s eyebrows came together like he was trying to figure out one of Ed’s puzzles, and Jim cursed himself for finding the action rather cute. Murderous kingpins should not look that cute when they wrinkled their nose. “Apartment…oh! Oh, I came to your apartment!”   
Jim decided this conversation might take a while, closing his eyes, and trying to hold back his temper. “Yes, I got that much. Why did you come here?”   
Oswald waved a hand carelessly, looking back to the ceiling. “You never come to the club anymore,” he said, his tone almost pouting. “I can help, you know. I’ve done it before.”   
“You help with murder, Penguin. I’ve been breaking up a city-wide prostitution ring, I figured you’d be a little out of your depth,” Jim said dryly, running a hand through his hair and letting out a tense breath.   
“Pfft! I could do prostitution!” Oswald snapped defensively, sitting up and jabbing one finger accusingly at Jim. “I’d be good at prostitution!”  
Jim found himself trying not to smile, praying to god Oswald remembered this conversation tomorrow. “Sure, Oswald. You’d be fantastic at prostitution, I’m sure.”   
“I would be!” Oswald looked rather smug, leaning against the back of the couch. “M’ good at everything.”   
“Except modestly,” Jim snarked back, as he reached down at grabbed the bottle. He ignoring the bird-like squawk from the smaller man, pulling it loose and holding it over his head. Oswald grumbled, making a loose grab for the bottle, but he was off by a good foot or two. “Alright, I’m cutting you off. Stay there.”   
“Sir, yes sir!” Oswald gave a dramatic salute, his arm flopping around before he burst into another round of giggles. Wonderful.  
Jim rubbed his temples, walking over to his fridge and yanking it open. He grabbed a red Gatorade and a few pieces of plain bread before coming back, Oswald following the movement with huge, frost green eyes. “Eat this, drink that, and then I’ll drive you back to your club.”   
“Really?” Oswald's eyes positively glowed, acting like Jim has offered him a million dollars, not a ride in a shitty Corolla. Oswald took the bread, analyzing it critically before taking a tentative nibble. When he didn’t drop dead from poison the gangster took a massive bite, sitting back with a satisfied expression. “See, this is why I like you.”   
“Because I can drive?”   
“No, silly,” Oswald chuckled, one cheek sticking out to the side. “Cuz your nice to me, James. Jim. Jimmy?”   
“Jim, thanks. And Oswald, we hate each other.”   
“I don’t hate you, James, you hate me,” Oswald’s eyes dimmed, his good mood quickly fading away. “You hate me, but I don’t know why. I help you, don’t I? M’ useful.”   
Despite his better judgment, Jim couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for the man looking up at him. He sat down on the couch next to Oswald, taking the remaining bread from him and handing him the Gatorade. Oswald drank it back without question, trusting Jim even when he was drunk. Jim felt a wave of guilt, turning away from the sad green eyes. “I don’t hate you, Penguin. You’re a pain in my ass, sure, but I don’t hate you.”   
The man looked at him in surprise, Jim close enough to see the freckles on his cheekbones. When he spoke, he spoke like he was confessing a secret to a confidant, his tone secretive. “Jim? I really like it here.”   
“Oswald, this apartment is crap.”   
“So was mine,” Oswald shrugged, putting the bottle down on the table and letting out a long sigh. “M’safe here.”   
“What?”   
“Safe,” he repeated, blinking drowsily at Jim. “I don’t have to worry here, or always be ready to fight.”   
Jim raised one eyebrow, a bit confused. “Because no one will look for you here?”   
“Because you’re here, silly,” Oswald teased, falling sideways against the larger man. “I trust you, Jimes. Jams?” his eyebrows came together in concentration. “Gordon? Gordon. You keep me safe.”   
Jim’s stomach curled with guilt, remembering the fear on Oswald’s face at Arkham, or when he pleaded for help with Galavan. How the hell could the man still have so much trust in him? Jim had figured he didn’t fear Jim after the fear gas attack, but to trust him still, after everything? But Oswald sounded completely honest, his face open and his eyes full of conviction, giving Jim another wave of guilt. “You shouldn’t trust me, Penguin.”   
“Too bad.” the tone was almost defiant, lying limp against Jim’s side. “I trust you and you can’t tell me what to do.”   
“Trust me, I’ve noticed,” Jim dropped his head back against the couch, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment and counting to five. Fuck, he was tired. Jim knew how dangerous the man next to him was, but he felt completely at ease with Oswald curled up against him like a spiky black cat. Oswald was thin but solid against his side, his breathing evening out as the Penguin started to drift of into sleep, completely at ease in the house of a cop.  
The peaceful moment was broken by a loud squeal, making both men jump in surprise. There was suddenly a loud banging noise just outside the window, and Jim reacted on instinct. He threw Oswald onto the ground in front of the couch, lying on top of the smaller man as explosions echoed outside, over and over again. Jim flinched at each one, his fingers digging into an expensive suit as his mind raced wildly. Gun where’s my gun protect him I need my gun oh god make it stop I need-  
“Jim?” a squeak came from under him, breaking through the beginnings of a panic attack. Jim froze, realizing he was wrapped around the man protectively while Oswald stared at him with large, confused eyes.   
Shit.   
“I…bad. My bad. Training.” Jim jerked backward off Oswald like he’d been burned, falling back on his ass. He noticed Oswald was holding his knee, clearly banged when he’d been tackled to the ground. “Oh shit, sorry, I just-”   
Another explosion cut off his explanation, his body curling up on instinct and waiting for pain and heat that never came. He covered his ears, taking a shaky breath while his heart raced wildly in his chest. Another bang echoed outside, and he pressed his nails into his skin deep enough to leave marks. Oh god, oh god, oh god-  
“-im?” hands were covering his, smaller calloused hands that were tugging his own off his ears. “Jim? James? James, breathe.”   
Jim realized his entire body was stiff, one coiled muscle waiting for impact. The smaller hands pulled his bigger ones down to his lap, frosty green eyes looking at him in concern. “Jim, you need to breathe. Your ok, you just need to breathe, ok?”   
Jim didn’t consider himself good at much, but one thing could do was follow orders in combat. He let out a shaky huff, lungs gasping for air he hadn’t realized he’d been withholding. His hands were trembling, and he could feel his shirt sticking uncomfortably to his back with sweat. “Oswald?”   
The man bobbed his head eagerly, hands resting on Jim’s upper arms. “Mhmm, here. You’re okay, your okay.” Oswald’s voice was soft, grounding Jim as another small explosion rang outside. Oswald wiggled closer, his face pulling tight in pain as he moved his bad leg. Still, he clumsily grabbed Jim’s head and pulled him forwards, Jim’s forehead resting just below Oswald’s collar bone. “Safe. Safe, promise.”   
Jim was caught completely by surprise and didn’t fight back when the tipsy man pulled him against his chest. Frankly, Jim couldn’t remember the last someone had been comforting him; it was usually the other way around, Jim consoling crying victims or scared rookies. He’d done similar to Barbara and Lee when they dated but always handled his own fears alone, locking himself in the bathroom until he could control himself again. And hell, Sofia or Vale didn’t even know about his PTSD, nevermind comforting him after an attack.  
It felt ridiculously good to be held, considering he was leaning against a man who could probably murder him with a sticky note.   
“Jim?”   
“S…sorry,” Jim reluctantly pulled back, taking a shaky breath. Another pop outside his window made him flinch, but he pushed down any other reactions. Jim waved a hand vaguely towards the window behind him, still looking at the ground instead of Oswald. “I fuckin hate New Years' Eve. And fireworks. Especially the fireworks.”   
“You get shot at all the time.”   
“Different sound. That’s not as loud or bright and - look, I can’t explain it, it’s just different, alright?” He sounded like a whiney teenager even to his own ears, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.   
“That’s why you didn’t go out,” Oswald nodded solemnly to himself.   
Jim looked up at gave him the best glare he could considering he was still trembling. “Penguin, if you tell anyone about – ow!” he cut off because Oswald had clumsily flicked him on the nose, missing and more or less smacking Jim’s cheekbone.   
“Stupid. M’ not going to…to…” Oswald looked frustrated, apparently ‘blackmail’ not currently in his vocabulary. “Hurt. I’m not going to hurt you.” He sounded rather proud of himself when he got the sentence out.   
Jim didn’t have the energy to answer that or to ignore the warm, comforting feeling it gave him. He was trying to find something to say when he felt Oswald moving, the pale man trying to push himself to his feet. “Oswald?”   
He didn’t answer, hissing something in Hungarian as he dragged his bad leg up, using the table to lift himself. One hand was still holding Jim’s shoulder, and Jim obediently followed him up. Oswald was still quite drunk, wobbling dangerously as he pulled Jim towards the kitchen. “Uh, Oswa-”  
“Shh.” Jim quirked an eyebrow at the tone, one finger waving his way as the man limped over to the sink. Oswald awkwardly leaned over the sink, taking a few seconds for his fuzzy mind to remember how the window handles work. But he yanked them shut, even pulling the shitty beige curtain down like a shield.   
He seemed satisfied with that, stumbling back to Jim and grabbing his hand with both of his. Jim stared at his fingers, surprised at how delicate and small the gangster’s fingers were. “Oswald?”   
“Come.” Oswald was pulling him down the hallway, Jim feeling a jolt of fear when he realized he was being pulled towards his bedroom.   
“Oswald-”  
“Shhh! Your so loud, Jim,” Oswald grumbled, not seeming even a little bit phased by the situation. Jim nervously let himself be pulled into the room, Oswald leading him to the side of the bed. Then he turned back around and shoved Jim backward, surprisingly strong for his size.   
Jim huffed as he fell onto the bed, the previous nervousness replaced with full-blown panic now. Oswald leaned over, nearly giving Jim the second panic attack of the night, his face dangerously close to Jim’s. “Oswald, stop, you’re really drunk, we can’t – Oswald?”   
Oswald wasn’t even looking at him. Instead of following him or straddling him as Jim had feared, Oswald just grabbed a pillow from the other side of the bed, yanking it over and limping to the small window. He smacked the pillow against the panel, arranging it so it was sitting on the sill and covering the thin glass. It took Jim a moment to realize Oswald was trying to block the sound coming from the streets below, using the pillow to compensate for the crappy glass. Jim suddenly felt a rush of warmth in his chest at the action, unable to stop himself from grinning like an idiot. Jesus, the man could barely stand up straight, and he was still trying to help Jim however he could.   
“Your soundproofing stinks,” Oswald commented, returning to the bed and sitting on the edge. He scowled at his feet, kicking his shoes off and sending them halfway across the room. The jacket was next, followed by his vest and tie.   
Jim started to feel apprehensive again, his head swerving back and forth like he was watching a tennis match. “Uh, Oswald-”  
“Shh.” a finger was held up to his lips, stopping the cop mid-sentence. “M’ not doing anything…anything…untoward, Jim.”   
“Could have fooled me.”   
Oswald snorted, wiggling into the spot next to a still baffled Jim and yanking the worn blankets over his shoulder. “Later. M’ tired, lie down.”   
Ah hell, the night couldn’t get much weirder. Jim yanked back the blanket and laid down. “OK?”   
“Face thataway,” Oswald jabbed a finger towards the wall, sending a new wave of confusion and a little bit of hurt through Jim. What, Oswald didn’t even want to look at him now?   
Still, Jim faced the wall and put his back to the gangster, wincing as another firework exploded outside. Hell, at least he still had his clothes on – Oswald was going to shank him with his own silverware when he woke up sober.   
Jim was already trying to think of excuses to give the hung-over Penguin when his entire body went stiff as a plank. Two thin arms had wrapped around him from behind, Oswald lying a little higher in the bed and resting his chin on the top of Jim’s head. His normally gravelly voice came out rather squeaky when he sputtered out “Os…Oswald?”  
“Sleep,” Oswald ordered, his arms tightening around the larger man protectively as he buried his face in Jim's overgrown blond hair. “Your safe, Jim. Home. Not…not at afg…afgan…”   
“Afghanistan?”   
“There. We’re in Gotham,” he sighed, and Jim felt his breath on the back of his neck. “We’re home.”   
Jim laid frozen for a minute longer, but slowly started to smile despite himself. He wiggled a little lower in the bed, pulling the blanket over his shoulder. Oswald shifted his arms but still held on tight, clinging onto his back like Jim was something precious he wanted to protect.  
“Y-yeah. Ok, yeah. We’re home.”   
“Silly,” was the amused reply, Jim not bothering to answer. He closed his eyes and let out a long breath, relaxing into the thin arms and letting himself drift off to sleep. “Happy ‘ew year, Jim.”   
“Happy new year, Oz,” Jim smiled where Oswald couldn’t see it, covering Oswald’s smaller hand with his, weaving their fingers together.  
For the first time since he could remember, Jim got a full night’s sleep.


End file.
